The Heart of the Matter
by WritingSpeaksLouder
Summary: Set sometime before the fall and after the run in with Moriarty. Things have been pretty boring lately-for Sherlock at least-and everyone has all but pushed the thought of Moriarty to the back of their minds. When the criminal starts spying, however, Jim Moriarty discovers more about Sherlock and his heart-and decides he knows just how to burn it.Potential slash,rating may change
1. Don't Go Breakin' My Heart

**Hey there! Sooo I've been pretty busy lately... Sorry about that ^^" S and I will both try to get working on our stories! But you know, what's always been one of my addictions is Sherlock Holmes, and when I stumbled across Sherlock BBC, I jumped on it! :D I absolutely love it! So this story will most likely be short, since I'm still pretty busy and not to great with plot compared to Sherlock Holmes, for crying out loud, but I hope you like it! So read and enjoy!**

* * *

It had been a long and difficult week. Sherlock being Sherlock, he'd taken two cases at once, saying either was 'too boring' but would perhaps be entertaining if worked on simultaneously. Only he would come up with that sort of logic. Despite that, and he dragging John around London chasing several murderers, sometimes more than one and more than twice in a single day, nothing seemed to cure this taste of restlessness that surrounded the detective.

John sat in his chair, fingers clicking along at the blog. The flat was quiet for once and the smell of firewood and burnt cookies mixed about as the air outside had gotten nippy with pre-winter breeze, and Mrs. Hudson was continuously baking downstairs. Sherlock had suddenly jumped up and ran out a few hours earlier, throwing a, "I'll be back later!" over his shoulder at John.

Typically the older soldier was used to this, but he couldn't help the nagging feeling that he usually received when Sherlock disappeared on his own that had strengthened every passing of the hour. John sighed, the soft sound permeating the air, and he glanced around. The kitchen table which he could see just over the couch was still littered with beakers and bottles filled with some substance or another that John was always extremely cautious to never come in contact with. He'd bought milk earlier, and though the head had been removed from the fridge a while ago, he shivered every time he saw that spot it had been, and imagined it sitting there, gazing lifelessly…

John stopped that train of thought and rubbed his eyes, seeing spots from hours and hours of staring at the computer screen. He hadn't been on a date in a while, either; most relationships he attempted fell apart before they even started. Most would say that he was "already in a relationship" and "he didn't have time for them". Others would advise them to seek a therapist so he could find his "true self".

What the bloody hell did that mean, anyway? It was ridiculous. John would admit that running and solving crimes with Sherlock took up a lot of time, but that was what he did. Although Sherlock would state otherwise, John was worried that Sherlock would be lost without him, and the other way around as well. The army doctor didn't think he'd ever find anyone that would put up with Sherlock as he does, or someone that would ever make him want to actually leave Sherlock. Sherlock was just… too important to him.

Without awaiting permission, his mind flashed back to his meeting with Irene Adler, after everyone, including Sherlock, believed her dead.

_"We're not a couple—"_

_ "Yes you are."_

John ran a rough hand over his face, not seeing the computer screen anymore. Why the hell did everyone insist that they were a couple?

_"I'm not gay!_

_ "Well I am. Look at us both."_

John had to say, he was more than a little bit surprised at the Woman's admission. But what did she mean by "look at us both"? People thought she was in love with Sherlock, or at least had a strong interest in him. When they first met, Irene talked about slapping his cheek bones. While John had noticed the rather attractive cut of Sherlock's cheek bones himself, that had been just a little bit strange. So did she mean..? No. John visibly frowned. She couldn't possibly mean what he thought she did… right?

A sudden slam of the door jolted him out of his thoughts, and John looked up in surprise to have his jaw drop. Sherlock stood in his long coat, completely soaked, with his dark curls falling about his face, a bruised cheek, and a lighter in hand. The detective scoffed.

"That was a waste of time." John pulled himself out of his daze and stood moving swiftly over to Sherlock to examine him as the man began to shed his long coat.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sherlock waved a hand airily.

"Just a fight with a fisherman. Really, it was quite boring. Has my guinea pig saturated yet?" John halted and stuttered.

"Y-You've been saturating a guinea pig? For God's sake, Sherlock—" The detective was already shaking his head, droplets of water flickering from the ends of his dark locks as he tossed the lighter on the table.

"It was already dead. Really, John, you overreact to the smallest things."

"Oh, I overreact," John started, following Sherlock as he made his way towards the bathroom, "When do I overreact, Sherlock? Not when you suddenly take off running in the middle of the night, not returning for hours. Definitely not when you keep _severed heads_ in the kitchen—" This was responded with a small, "Where else was I supposed to keep it?", but John continued on as if he hadn't heard—"And certainly not when you decide you're bored and start cooking up animals!" They'd reached the bathroom and Sherlock turned to him in the doorway, his dark, slightly warm eyes meeting John's lighter ones.

"I need my experiments to be untouched, John, so if you don't mind, keep the animals where they are. And I think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate this a touch more than blowing holes in her wall." John scoffed.

"Not if the smell starts going downstairs." Sherlock chuckled a bit, and John smiled.

"Yes, well, if you don't mind, I'd like to get this wretched filth off me now, so…" With that, Sherlock shut the door in his face. John shook his head in slightly disbelief, his smile still tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Don't get blood on the floor like you did last time! Mrs. Hudson had a fit when she came in the other day!" All that resulted in was a low chuckle, and John laughed a bit before walking back down the hall and into the living room. Instead of going back to his desk and his blog, he stepped into the kitchen and readied the kettle, double checking that they had clean cups, and making extra careful not to look down into any of the bottles and vials sitting along the table.

* * *

Unknown to him or Sherlock Holmes, a pair of eyes watched him carefully, and a slick smile grew on the face that had witnessed the whole exchange. Perhaps… this would be the best way to get to Sherlock Holmes… and the best, cruelest way to burn his heart.

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**Wahla :) I know it was short, but it will pick up next chapter and so forth :) There will be some, ahh, _predicaments _our favorite duo will get into, if you know what I mean ;) sooo, stay tuned! Feel free to review and favorite and all that jazz :) See yas next time!**


	2. I'll Eat Your Heart Out

**YO! Hey there :) Soo yeah... If I forgot to post on the first chapter, I am Jinx! See, this is a joined account (if you haven't checked my/our profile, you wouldn't know, so I'm letting you know ^^) and it's me (Jinx) and Jade :) Soo if you have any questions about my stories, this one or others, make sure you state that you're talking to me, and same with Jade. If it's to both of us, then just say so or leave it blank, and we'll assume it's for both of us :)**

**Anyhows!**

**We're starting to get plot here! I didn't think there was going to be much, but I got a few ideas so it will be more developed than I originally thought... Again, don't compare it to the real thing ^^" But yeah, thank you for reading! I hope you liked the last one! This chapter is a bit longer, so I hope you enjoy it. OH! and for clarification; John IS currently dating Mary, I know in the last one he said he hadn't been on 'dates' in a while, but that still stands, he hasn't spent much time with Mary either, soo... yeah. Anyhows,,  
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**Enjoy!  
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Sherlock groaned, and John clicked his tongue.

"If you say you're bored one more time, I'll shove that violin piece down your throat." Sherlock gave another, louder groan from his spot lying on the couch.

"But I'm bored," he drawled. John halted typing and sighed, rubbing his eyes before turning in his chair to appraise the childish genius.

"Then why don't you go see if Lestrade needs help with anything?" Sherlock scoffed, not removing his eyes from the ceiling, his long, spindly fingers fiddling with the strings of his violin.

"Just a couple of stolen jewels and break ins. Not worth my time." John held in another sigh. He and Sherlock had been in the flat for hours, John typing his blog and Sherlock complaining on how there was nothing to do. John was thankful that the genius hadn't asked for his cigarettes yet, but it was soon to come. For now, the detective was probably getting his kicks just bothering John.

The doctor decided to ignore the last statement and turned back to his blog. His eyes scanned the words, trying to find where he had been, when he heard rustling from the couch. Again John ignored it, until a hand rested on the back of his chair and a warm breath ghosted down his cheek.

"What are you doing?" John swallowed a bit, Sherlock's soft black curls brushing against his face.

"Writing, Sherlock. You wouldn't be interested."

"Hn." Sherlock made a noncommittal noise before pulling away, leaving room for John to breathe. The tall detective made his way back to the couch, flopping down gracefully with his phone in hand. Wait… John's eyes narrowed.

"Is that my phone?"

"Hn. Yes," Shelock answered, his thin fingers tapping on the keys. John ran a hand over his face.

"And why do you have my phone? Where's yours?"

"Dropped it in the lake." John took in a long breath before letting it out in a sigh. Sherlock's eyes flickered to him, but he remained silent. Just then there was a tiny knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson appeared sheepishly.

"Sorry boys, he insisted to come up without ringing the door bell…" Lestrade slipped past her with a nod and she smiled back, ducking out of the doorway once again. Sherlock sat up and gave him an accusing glance.

"What are you doing here?" Lestrade placed his hands on his hips, his eyes turning upward in what John had recognized as his 'trying-to-put-up-with-Sherlock-because-I-need-him' stance.

"There's a case, it's got us stumped. I figured you might be interested in it." Sherlock made another noise in the back of his throat and stood swiftly, tossing John's phone back to him, who caught it deftly.

"Is there anything particularly interesting or is it normal stupidity that Anderson usually is accountable for?" Sherlock questioned as John immediately searched through his phone for anything disrupted. Lestrade shook his head and bit his lip.

"No, this one is really interesting. You'll get a kick out of it." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as John frowned at his phone.

"And what makes you say that?" John let out an indignant shout just then, and Sherlock continued to look at Lestrade as the doctor's jaw dropped.

"You texted Mary on my phone!"

"Brilliant observation, John, I was wondering when you were going to come-to," Sherlock replied airily, not taking his attention off Lestrade, "Now what is so interesting? Quickly, before I lose interest, I have a multitude of things to do…"

"Er… it's the victim's heart," Lestrade answered, glancing at John before turning back to Sherlock.

"'Sorry Mary, but your breast size is too miniscule for my liking. I have decided to terminate our relationship in favor of more bodacious—'" John's face turned cherry red. Sherlock didn't respond, instead choosing to roll his eyes at Lestrade.

"If they had a heart attack, there's no mystery there—most likely lack of exercise and too many chips—" Lestrade shook his head, ignoring more drowned out protests from John.

"No, it's their actual heart—it's missing." Both men paused, John raising his head from his phone and Sherlock's eyebrow's quirking with interest. A small smile pulled at Sherlock's lips as he grabbed his scarf off the back of the couch and began to tie it around his neck.

"By all means, lead the way then, inspector." Lestrade nodded and disappeared behind the door and Sherlock made to follow him when John squeaked.

"You didn't even say it was from you!" Sherlock turned to him with feign confusion, but the small smirk on his face gave him away.

"Why of course not, John, don't be ridiculous. I've never seen her breasts." Sherlock slipped behind the door, leaving John fuming. Angrily he shoved his phone in his pocket and grabbed his jacket, cursing under his breath as he followed the reason for no doubt yet another fight with Mary out the door.

* * *

Anger was still rolling off in waves as John and Sherlock walked across the expanse of grass towards the river, where a perimeter had been set and forensics teams swarmed.

"I bet you're pretty pleased with yourself right now," John snarled, though Sherlock gave no impression of having heard him. The doctor huffed.

"You know, this isn't something you can say, 'oh, just kidding!' to. You insulted the woman's brea—" With a glance at their surroundings, John coughed and spat out in a harsh whisper, "her breasts, Sherlock! Do you know how pissed that makes them? And rightfully so in this case! Are you even listening to me?" Of course, he wasn't, and John pinched the bridge of his nose, halting as they reached the yellow police tape.

"Just, can you tell me why, Sherlock?" John asked, chuckling humorlessly, "Why you insist on making my relationship with Mary a ride of hell for her and me? I mean, what was the point of that?" Sherlock finally turned to him.

"I have no intention of sabotaging your relationship, it would serve no purpose. And I'm sure you can talk her out of getting to angry with that—sentiment," Sherlock waved his hand, as if waving the improbable feeling away from him, "And you should know the point of the text clearly, John." John frowned at him in his very clear 'well I don't, explain it to me' way and Sherlock glanced at him.

"I was bored." John's jaw tightened as Sherlock ducked under the police tape. The doctor nodded, muttering under his breath as he ducked, also. Donovan sidled up beside him, to which he almost groaned out loud, but refrained.

"So, your freak's got another case," she started, and John's eyes narrowed, "What does that mean for you then?" John glanced at her.

"What'd' you mean?" She smirked a bit.

"Well, Lestrade told me about the little text mishap this mornin'," she started, and John shook his head—word got around fast when it was about him or Sherlock, "And now with this new case, you won't be able to see much of your girly 'round." John still frowned at her suspiciously.

"And? What does that have to do with anything?" Donovan gave a shrug in an unconvincing way to look nonchalant.

"Just seems like a convenient way for him to keep ya to himself," she stated, "It'd suit him if it turned out he was a poof. I'd keep an eye on 'im, if ya know what I mean." John opened his mouth to protest, but she was already gone, and instead Sherlock's voice replaced his.

"John, I asked you to analyze the body." John realized he was standing next to Sherlock, who was staring down at a bloody body, and caught off guard by the sudden gore, John almost gagged. He had done only a few open-heart surgeries in his day, and usually he wasn't the main medical man in charge, but this operation looked like someone had taken a chainsaw to the chest, ripping open the sternum and splitting the ribs. Regaining himself quickly, John squeezed his hands into a pair of rubber gloves and knelt down beside the body, examining it carefully.

"Looks like a chain saw, from the serrated edges here," he gathered out loud, motioning to the cracked and hammered sternum, "Ripped straight through the bone and tissue… Seems to have been here for maybe a week or so. Judging from that, the state of his face, and the amount of blood, I'd have to say he was still alive when the chainsaw got him." Lestrade swore as John stood, fiddling with his gloves but refraining from peeling them completely off. Sherlock gazed at him out of the corner of his eye, smirking a bit at the frown on his face.

"You feel as if you've missed something, don't you?" John looked at him in surprise, and Sherlock pushed forward before he could open his mouth to ask, "It's because you have. See here? The bone is completely cut through almost haphazardly, but when you look, none of the inside tissue that had surrounded the heart is chopped up. If you look closer, you can see that the area around the heart is nice and neat, meaning our killer has some surgical practice. They used the chainsaw perhaps because the want for blood or in the rush of time, but they took care in taking out the heart, my guess would be that it's still in complete contact, hidden somewhere they can find so they can stare at it, like a trophy. Of course, this could be the case if it were not for the fingers."

"The fingers?" Lestrade question, his face twisting slightly in confusion and disgust. Sherlock knelt down and carefully raised the right hand of the victim, slightly pudgy.

"The entire body is covered in dirt and mud from flailing as they were attacked," he stated, turning the hand over so that the palm was upwards, "except for these few fingers. They've dried by now, but the only reason these fingers would be clean after the victim was scrounging in the mud attempting to get away would be that someone else cleaned them."

"The killer?" John asked, frowning, "But why would he—"

"Spit," Sherlock intervened, lowering the hand and standing as he snapped the gloves off, "The DNA will have faded by now, but—"

"Wait, spit?" Lestrade interrupted, looking even more disgusted than before, "You mean, the killer licked…?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and turned to walk away.

"It seems, inspector," he said, turning back to smirk at him a bit, "That we've got a cannibal on our hands."

* * *

A smile widened. _Perfect_. As always, he could always count on Sherlock to find the clues and solve the puzzle. The last puzzle for him, however, will be how to mend a heart broken to pieces and burnt to a crisp. A low chuckle filled the air. By now, almost everything was put in place. A day or so more, and the operation would truly begin.

* * *

John sat in his usual chair, sipping tea while Sherlock searched something on his phone—he'd promised not to send any more texts, and John believed him; it would be too 'boring' to repeat something.

"Hey, Sherlock…"

"Hn?"

"If the killer's a cannibal, how come he didn't eat the rest of the body? I mean, why just the heart?" Sherlock didn't look at him as he answered, continuing to scan his phone—honestly John was amazed sometimes at the man's ability to multitask.

"That is the question, isn't it? He may have a specific taste he prefers that only comes with the heart, as he's obviously an experienced killer and cannibal, or perhaps he ran out of time taking the heart and couldn't come to the rest of the body."

"But if someone was coming, wouldn't the body have been reported sooner?" Sherlock's lips turned up.

"Yes, unless it was someone he knew that was rushing him." John frowned.

"You think there might be someone else working with him? Another cannibal?"

"No. Not another cannibal, but someone covering for ours. Aren't you curious as to why they would turn up now? If they'd been operating here previously, then why would they suddenly leave a body out in the open for the police to find? They had to know in that location that it would be found eventually, and they could have moved the body if they had enough strength to shove a chain saw through someone's sternum. The only reason, then, is…"

"They wanted someone to find it," John summed up, and Sherlock smirked.

"It seems someone wants to get our attention. Finally, something fun to do!" Sherlock suddenly leaped up and tossed John his phone, heading towards his bedroom.

"Er, you done?" John asked, surprised.

"No, but I think she'd rather not have me answer at the moment. Do give it back when you're done." John's mouth opened, but just then his phone rang. The caller ID read; Mary. John groaned loudly and glared at Sherlock, who had returned with his violin in hand.

"You're gonna pay for this," he hissed as the doctor stood and moved towards the doorway. He answered the phone just before closing the door.

"Er, hey Mary…" As the door closed, Sherlock could hear the beginning of,

"JOHN HAYMISH WATSON—" The tall detective plucked at his violin strings as he slowly moved towards the window, a satisfied smirk curling onto his lips. It looked like things were finally starting to liven up around here, just as he wanted.

* * *

Another voice chuckled, as if reading his thoughts. _If only he knew…_

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**So... Hope you liked it! If you have any questions or ideas for characters, plot, etc., feel free to leave a review and let me know ;) Which brings me to this: I will be answering reviews after each chapter. If you don't want your screen name on here for whatever reason, just message me or let me know! Alrighty then? Mmk!  
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Mzzmarie- Thanks for the review! Yes, I love Sherlock and I'm surprised that I really like writing it... it makes you think :) I have a lot planned for Sherlock's poor heart ;)**  
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**Ya know, I can survive without reviews, but I do love them, too ;) Soo subscribe and whatnot, I hope you liked it :) See you soon!**

**~Jinx~  
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	3. Take a Bite of My Heart

**Hey there! Been a while... Sorry bout that. But it's here now :) Warning: SUPER suggestive... inappropriate... But hey, it's Sherlock and John, what do ya expect? Anyhows, this chapter it really long... You'll see. Hopefully it's good though :) Sooo enjoy!**

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Sherlock was deep in his Mind Palace. John knew it would take an explosion to get him out of it, if even that. That was one of the many traits Sherlock had that made John worry; the detective would go for days or weeks on end without sleep or food, and while he still functioned, John had started to realize shortly after moving in with him, that was the main reason for his lean body, along with all the running around he did when on cases.

John stood in the kitchen making tea while Sherlock sat back in a chair, his legs folded under him and his fingers at his temples. After almost an our conversation on the phone with Mary, John had finally convinced her to let him take her out as an apology. The doctor knew Sherlock would never apologize for something like that; he rarely every apologized for everything. Still… why had he done it?

Sure, Sherlock did strange things when he was bored—shooting holes through the wall and saturating little pigs were only a choice few examples—but even then, mostly they were for a purpose. Whether he decided to share that purpose with others was completely up to Sherlock, of course.

So what was the purpose in getting Mary mad at him? John knew Sherlock probably liked seeing him getting frustrated in relationships… but why? Donovan's words popped into his head and he growled lowly, accidentally spilling some tea. Hurriedly he grabbed napkins and started mopping some up. Just then his phone went off and John sighed, not having to check it to know it was Mary. He threw the napkins away and started towards the door.

"Sherlock, I'm going out with Mary. I'll see be back in a bit. The kettle's on, so make yourself some tea, will you? It doesn't take much to digest tea, so it won't slow down your brain power… or whatever," John tossed out, pulling on his jumper. As expected, there was no response, and John sighed before starting down the stairs, pulling the door closed behind him.

* * *

More information. He needed more information. Another body would do… Sherlock bit his thumb.

"John, make me some tea." It was silent. Sherlock lifted his head a bit, blinking away the thought processes that had been swimming in front of his eyes for the past few hours, and looked around. The window outside was darkened, and the whole room was dark blue with nighttime. Sherlock frowned as he began to stretch his long legs out, setting his feet on the floor. His muscles screamed as he stretched them, grimacing slightly.

"John? Tea?" Again, there was no reply. There was no sound, in fact. Sherlock's frowned deepened again. How long had John been out? The detective knew the older man could take care of himself, but still… with everything that had happened with Moriarty, especially at the pool, Sherlock had begun to feel this pinching, digging feeling in his gut every time John was gone for long periods of time.

As it might be related to sentiment, Sherlock left the feeling unexamined, as there was no need. Besides, John might interpret it as something different than it is—he really was quite daft sometimes, Sherlock thought with a small, fond smile.

Just then there were the sounds of footsteps climbing the stairs and Sherlock wiped the smile away, wondering how he hadn't noticed the door closing downstairs. Sherlock frowned. From the sound of the steps and the weight placed on each of them, it was absolutely John. But where had he gone? Sherlock recalled earlier John making a date with Mary… but why would he be back so early if it was a date? Could something have gone wrong? Sherlock once again ignored the strong, unbelievable sense of satisfaction that soaked into his gut.

A moment later the door opened and closed, and there stood John, awkwardly. Sherlock immediately examined him; hair mussed from running a hand through it as John did often when he was agitated or upset—Sherlock assumed it was because Mary badgering him about letting Sherlock use his phone or perhaps Sherlock in general-, his collar pulled up around his neck, which could be from the cold except from where he sat Sherlock could see the sweat lining John's brow and he was ringing his hands in nervousness, not to keep them warm.

So, he was trying to hide something on his neck—most likely some of those love bites or whatever people called them that Sherlock occasionally saw on the shorter man on such nights after his dates with Mary, or occasionally mornings. The rest of his clothes were slightly more disheveled than usual. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I asked you for tea." John swallowed and didn't move from the doorway instead of reacting with his usual lackadaisical attitude when finding out Sherlock still talked to him while he was away. Sherlock frowned. John's hand was shaking. _This_ sent alarms off in his head and Sherlock moved to stand when suddenly John shot forward.

"Stop!" There was such desperation and command in his voice that Sherlock immediately halted. John didn't lower the hand he had raised to stop him, instead moving toward the detective slowly.

"Sit… sit down." Sherlock slowly slipped back down without a word, his curiosity piqued. John rubbed his hands together, clinching them, shifting. He wouldn't meet Sherlock's gaze. Suddenly John flinched, his face twisted in pain, and Sherlock leaned forward a bit.

John held up a hand again and this time placed it on Sherlock's chest and pushed him backwards. Sherlock fell against the back of the chair and he stared at John curiously. He only had a moment before his brain could begin to process as John's body leaned over his, his harsh breathing ruffling Sherlock's hair and brushing his neck, sending shivers through him.

* * *

John swallowed thickly once again. He could feel the cool metal around his neck. It was tight—too tight. He could barely breathe. Of course, part of that could be due to the fact that he was currently sitting in his best friend's lap. A voice chuckled in his ear, and a wave of anger and fear ran through him. He knew the other man was getting no small amount of entertainment from this. John tried to calm himself down and think. How the hell had he even gotten into this situation?

* * *

_John stepped out of 221B and sighed, glancing around for a cab. The streets were busy as always, teeming with people, and he pushed through the crowd politely in search. Just then something clamped down on his arm, and he turned. A tall man in dark sunglasses held a tight grip on his arm, and behind him, the doctor saw a darkly colored car awaiting. John glanced back at the flat. He wasn't that far… maybe he could text Sherlock… The man slipped his hand into his own pocket and held up John's cell phone. _

_John sighed. _

_He knew he had his gun, but the other man most likely knew, too, and the fact that he hadn't taken it meant that he didn't see it as a threat. Reluctantly, John allowed himself to be pulled towards the car, and gave a little shout of protest as the man roughly shoved him into the back seat. Once the door slammed shut, John immediately noticed the other presence. The leather interior smelled new, and there was the faint smell of a cherry air freshener. Across from John, who sat stock still with a straight, stony face, was none other than the criminal with dark brown eyes and an ever-present smirk._

"_Ah, John," Moriarty greeted pleasantly, "Nice to see you again, though I doubt you think so under the circumstances. You're doing well, I suspect?"_

"_Fine," John said shortly, "What do you want?" Moriarty cocked his eyebrow, his smirk growing. He as well as John was surprised at the doctor's boldness, especially when their last meeting had resulted in John having an extremely life threatening bomb strapped to his chest and snipers aimed at his heart._

"_Oh, just a little game," the sharply dressed man answered, shrugging and taking a sip of his tea. He offered some to John, and simply smiled when denied._

"_You see, I've been so lonely since my and Sherlock's last encounter. I decided I wanted to see how far I could stretch his heart."_

"_And what does that have to do with me?" John asked sharply. He didn't like the idea of anyone thinking they could simply play around with Sherlock or his heart, but would never reveal that to someone like this criminal. Although, by the knowing smirk on his face, Moriarty most likely already had deduced it._

"_Oh, you know… just everything." Moriarty suddenly leaned forward in John's personal space, and he automatically jumped back, bumping his head against the seat. Moriarty smirked._

"_I want to burn his heart," he whispered harshly, before leaning back once again, "But first… I want to test its limits. And what better way to do that than to use his little lap dog?"_

"_I am not his lap dog," John snapped. Moriarty tutted._

"_Now, now, there's nothing wrong with being a bottom, though I would have figured you more as the controlling type…" John's jaw dropped, his face burning._

"_Wha—pff—I-I—We're not a couple! And I would never—!"_

"_Never's a long time," Moriarty warned merrily, holding out the last word as if in a song, "If you're not a couple… What do you call two people that live and work together and yet never get tired of each other and are willing to die for the other?" Before John could answer, Moriarty waved a hand airily._

"_But enough chit chat, down to business." His face turned serious, and John met his gaze evenly._

"_You will do everything I say," he stated, "You disobey…" Moriarty snapped his fingers and suddenly the door opened and strong hands from the man from before were on him, and before John could breath there was a clack! And something cold and hard pressed against his neck._

"… _this little gadget will send a small, electric shock through you," Moriarty said, still grinning, with a tone as if he were discussing the weather, "and when I say 'small'… I mean that it can rise to the same amount of electricity as used with the electric chair." Moriarty held up a small gray piece of metal with a tiny red button in the middle._

"_If you don't immediately do what I tell you, or if you hesitate, you will receive a little shock like this…" Suddenly a red hot, sharp streak shot through John's body, wakening all of his nerves in pain. It only lasted a minute, but left John breathless and panting. Moriarty continued with the little smirk set in his face._

"_If you do anything to notify Sherlock of what is going on without him deducing it himself… an even fiercer one. If you try to take the necklace off yourself… you will have your eyes popping out of your skull and you'll be choking on your own tongue and vomit faster than our dear little Sherlock can spell 'hedgehog'. Got it?" John glared, but nodded, his fingers, which had been prodding the cold, intruding metal, reluctantly pulling back to sit in his lap with the others.  
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"_Alrighty then," Moriarty said, clapping and grinning, "I guess that's all. Oh! Don't forget… the same thing happens if you try to take out the ear piece. Don't do that, kay?" Moriarty winked and the door opened again and something small and metallic was placed into his hand. John swallowed and placed it in his ear. The man from earlier motioned behind him, and John turned slowly, allowing himself to be escorted down the now darker streets, wondering how exactly he was going to explain this to Mary, and what the hell Moriarty planned for him to do with Sherlock's heart._

* * *

Right now, John could hear Moriarty's quiet snickering in his right ear and mentally cursed him. Why the hell was he doing all of this? Sherlock was still staring up at him incredulously, his probing gaze bringing John back to their current, awkward situation. The heat from Sherlock's legs burned on the inside of John's thighs, reminding him that he was currently straddling his best and only friend. John cursed again in his head.

"John…?" Sherlock's baritone voice broke through his thoughts again and John's eyes met his. John's hands were beside Sherlock's head, holding him up on either side, and the doctor resisted the temptation to twirl his fingers in the dark locks.

"_Don't get distracted now… unbutton the first button on his shirt."_ John's jaw clenched in humiliation but did as he was told, and reached for the first button on Sherlock's purple shirt. Sherlock, surprisingly, stayed still and allowed him to release the first button, a flash of more pale, enticing skin appearing below the fabric. John swallowed again and left his hands hovering over Sherlock's chest, unsure where to place them.

"John…" Oh, god, Sherlock's eyes were boring into him now. John could barely stand to look at him straight on… "What are you doing?"

"_Now run your hand over his jaw,"_ Moriarty spoke when Sherlock stayed silent. John reached out for Sherlock's face, but before his finger tips could touch the pale skin, his wrist was caught in long, cold fingers. John's eyes widened and suddenly his body convulsed. Sherlock's eyes immediately rounded as he snatched his hand away. The shock and pain faded and John breathed heavily, leaning slightly over Sherlock, his forehead brushing the soft dark curls.

John's mind swirled. So, he also got hurt if Sherlock prevented him from doing what Moriarty told him? What was the point of that?

"_Oops… just a bit of a slip up… oh well."_ John cursed the criminal over and over in his head, when Sherlock broke his thoughts.

"John…" His eyes met Sherlock's probing, serious gaze, "Is it him?" John swallowed and didn't say or move, but that seemed to be enough. Sherlock raised a delicate hand and moved the collar of John's shirt and jacket to reveal the small piece of metal encircling his neck. He reached to touch it but John snatched his wrist out of the air. Sherlock met his alarmed eyes, realization setting in his own. The detective pulled his hands away and settled into the chair more.

"Very well. What does he want?" John licked his lips, listening in the ear piece.

"_Tell him… it's not about what he wants… but what I want. And I want you._"

John's face burned and he squeezed his eyes shut before reciting the lines dutifully.

"It's not about what he wants, but what I want. And I want you. Sherlock, I want you. Please let me have you." As John's face burned in humiliation, he could practically see the cogs turning in those stormy eyes of his, as if just simply solving a puzzle like he didn't have his best friend in his lap, telling him how much he wanted him. Would this be how he would react if John told him this without Moriarty's help? John doubted it, his mind going back to that first time at dinner when Sherlock had thought he'd been hitting on him. But no, this was much, much different. A lot had changed since then. _Not that much, though, _John scolded his mind.

"Why is he doing this?" Sherlock asked, his icy voice interrupting John's thoughts, "What is the point of all this?"

"_Don't answer,"_ Moriarty's voice immediately said, _"Instead, shift closer to him. Try to get as close as possible. And just for good measure… kiss his neck."_ John was mortified. He knew he had hesitated too long a second before the next shot of pain rang through his system. John bent over Sherlock again, panting, his eyes screwed shut. As the pain receded, John attempted to steady his breath before doing as he was told. He saw Sherlock's eyebrows furrow as John's legs widened and he shifted closer, their groins almost touching. John moved his head just below Sherlock's jaw and leaned forward. He paused only a moment when Sherlock's hands moved to his shoulders to push him away, and he could practically feel Moriarty's finger lying in wait on the trigger.

"Sherlock," he whispered, his voice quiet and strangled, "Please." With hesitation, Sherlock's hands drifted away, and John continued to lean forward until his lips pressed against hot flesh. He pulled away after a moment, trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock was no doubt trying to figure everything out; there was no guarantee that he was even still aware that John was there. Hell, he might be in his Mind Palace, sorting everything, completely distracted from their predicament. After thinking this, John gained the courage to look up, but his eyes clashed with steel ones, looking deep into his and quite aware of everything that was going on. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"I'm assuming this is some kind of sick game. Perhaps a strange fantasy of Moriarty's?" John knew he was trying to provoke Moriarty to talk with him directly, and wondered briefly if it would work. In his ear, Moriarty laughed.

"_Say… 'They're not his fantasies. They're mine. Won't you take me, Sherlock?"_ Jaw clenched in embarrassment and horror, John squeezed his eyes shut and recited the lines. Sherlock observed him, though John was refusing to look at him. Finally, he shrugged.

"Alright."

John's head snapped up, his jaw loose, and the line on his ear was silent for a moment. Sherlock was analyzing his face, as if he hadn't just agreed to do what he just did.

"_Ohh… always straightforward, Sherlock is, isn't he? Hmm… have him take off your belt. You know what will happen if you don't."_ John swallowed, meeting Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock held his meaningfully, and John sucked in a breath.

"He err… I mean I," he said, wincing at the small electric shock that sparked along his neck, "I-I want…you to take off my belt. Sherlock, please." The last two words held several meanings, and they stared at each other before Sherlock pursed his lips and released his hands from their previous position.

"Alright then." John's breath caught as Sherlock's nimble fingers fiddled with the belt, and was forced closer slightly when he began tugging the belt off. Finally, he tossed it on the floor and looked back at John, placing his hands back in that almost-praying position expectantly.

"_Good, very good. Now… lick his ear andddd… run a hand up his leg. That should do it."_ John sighed through his nose before meeting Sherlock's eyes briefly and meaningfully. He then leaned forward and placed the tip of his tongue at the bottom of Sherlock's ear, dragging it along the shell while simultaneously sliding his fingers from Sherlock's knee up his tightly-clothed leg, stopping a bit above mid-thigh. He could have sworn Sherlock's breath hitched, and was about to dismiss it when he was reminded that there was a high possibility that Sherlock may be a virgin. All of this could be completely foreign and uncomfortable for him, and he was only putting on a show of being unfazed for Moriarty, and perhaps John as well.

"_Very good… now unbutton his pants and grab him."_ John audibly gasped, his horror showing on his face as Sherlock frowned at him. No. No, no, no. Especially after his last thoughts, there was no way he could do that to Sherlock. They would never be the same; they would always have that awkward, we-got-to-second-base-because-of-a-criminal air. Maybe that was Moriarty's plan; to make their relationship slowly disintegrate because of awkwardness. And maybe resentment; Sherlock may never forgive him for doing something so… 'vile', as he might put it.

Hot white pain soared through his body and John slumped, breathing even heavier than before, his lungs burning. Sherlock's eyes probed him, wanting to know but at the same time hesitant to find out. John stared resolutely into Sherlock's eyes, and realization lit up in the dark orbs just as another flash of hot, burning pain zapped through his body, lasting seconds that seemed like hours longer than before. John could barely breathe, his entire body burning, his hairs on end. His fingers dug into the back of the chair, not helping to relieve the pain.

"John," Sherlock's rumbling voice said quietly, "Just do it." John shook his head, and there came a worse, longer pain than before, and John actually cried out. Sherlock reached for him, and John's body slumped into his as Sherlock placed his hands on either of his sides, attempting at comfort.

"John. Please." He didn't know if it was the promising tone, the pain, or the use of the word so often missing from Sherlock's mouth that made him nod slowly. John picked his head up slowly from where it had fallen onto Sherlock's shoulders, and he met his eyes meaningfully, apology written deep within them. Sherlock gave a small nod in understanding and acceptance, and John closed his eyes tightly.

He reached a hand down between them and his fingers brushed over the button of Sherlock's pants, and something else as well. His eyes shot open in shock as a small noise came from the back of Sherlock's voice, but was almost drowned out by a high-pitched, surprised shriek. Both of their heads snapped to the door where Mrs. Hudson stood, holding a hand to her heart and cradling a tea tray in the other. John heard the line in his ear cut, the reception gone, and Mrs. Hudson fretted and shook her head.

"Oh, I'm so sorry dears—I'll come… back later…" She shuffled back out swiftly, closing the door behind her, and no sooner as John taken the ear piece out to look at it than Sherlock stood, causing John to flail and land painfully on the ground. John groaned as the tall man exited the room without a word or glance. John lay on the ground for a moment, eyes closed, trying to stop the replays of what had just happened from playing over and over in his mind.

Maybe, just maybe, this was really what Moriarty had planned.

* * *

**Welp... yep. There ya go. More will be explained later... But for now, I hope you liked it :) Oh and**

**in case you didn't realize... what John also felt when he touched Sherlock's pants... yeah *ahem*boner*ahem* soo yup. Oh and the noise? *surprised moan*  
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**Just some clarification there  
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**I hope you liked it please review and stuffs byes for now  
**


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